


Killing Mercy

by MothrOfDragns



Category: South Park
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 10:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14134500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MothrOfDragns/pseuds/MothrOfDragns
Summary: In an alternate universe, in which Craig and Tweek have never before met, Tweek is a freshman at UCCS, who struggles to cope with his new responsibilities, whereas Craig makes ends meet by carrying out hits for a notorious criminal known only as Mr. Black.





	1. CRAIG

Craig sighed heavily, gazing out the window at the fresh winter’s snow powdering the ground outside.

“Please…” The man mumbled. “Young man… you don’t want to--”

“How do you know what I want to do?” Craig asked stoically. “You don’t even know my name, yet you presume to know my heart?”

“I have a wife.” The man tries. He sat, tied to a wooden chair, a thick cloth tied behind his ears to obscure his vision. He bore multiple newly acquired bruises, presumably from harsh interrogation. “Her name is Myrcella.”

“Ugly name.” Craig says.

“And two kids, Tommy and Jarren.”

“Think they’ll show up to your funeral?” Craig stated the question nonchalantly, as though he were asking him the time of day or the weather forecast.

“Why are you doing this?” The man persisted. “

“Why are you asking questions?” Craig retorted. “If someone’s about to kill you, which in this case, I most definitely am, what sense does it make to waste time asking them why?”

The man is silent, save a few stifled sobs which he tries poorly to conceal. Craig sighs as he twists the silencer onto his Beretta 9mm Pistol, whistling an unrecognizable show tune as he goes.

“For what it’s worth, I’m being paid.” Craig confides, checking the clip and sliding it into its proper place among the assembly.

“By who?” The man says, hope flashing in his eyes. “H-how much? How much, kid, listen, I’ll double it, triple it even.”

Craig gives a slight chuckle at his poignant desperation.

“You’re all the same, you know.” He tells the man. “All high and mighty in your offices, looking down on the rest of us. But when you’re faced with the outside world, the reality… you always beg and barter.”

“Please.” The man sobs, unabashedly at this. “PLEASE!”

Craig places the silencer against the man's forehead.

“You got any last words, now’s the time.” He says briskly. The man stays silent, staring emptily at the wall.

Craig shrugs.

“Goodbye, Mr. Grady.”

He squeezes the trigger lightly. There’s a pop, not as loud as an gunshot, but still audible, and a bright flash. In an instant the contents of the man’s skull are emptied against the wall behind him in a puff of crimson, chunks of pinkish-grey matter sprayed about the room in every which direction.

The man’s body goes limp, his head, which looks now like a cracked egg, slouches towards his crotch. Sighing, Craig takes a cloth, wiping the blood from his hands.

Removing his cell phone from his pocket, he sends a text message to a number reaching a disposable cell phone:

 

**ME:**

_It’s done._

**UNKNOWN NUMBER:**

_You’re sure?_

**ME:**

_I’m fairly sure I know when I’ve killed someone._

**UNKNOWN NUMBER:**

_He wants evidence. Meet him at Gnocchi’s, 7:00._

 

Why can’t they take his word for it, he wonders. It’s not like he’s been doing this five years or anything.

**ME:**

_Fine. He’s buying._

 

With a sigh, Craig exits his messenger app. He meanders to his backpack and fumbles around a bit before removing a Swiss army knife and a pair of latex gloves he’d bought at Target an hour earlier. The flies have already started settling in on the corpse. After slipping the gloves over his fingers, Craig takes the man’s hand, equipping the sharpest blade the knife has to offer, and saws away at the man’s thumb. He takes it off swiftly, placing it in a plastic Ziploc bag and slipping it away in his backpack.

He leaves the body where it is, careful not to touch it any more than absolutely necessary. The less evidence left behind, the better.

Stepping back over to his bookbag, he removes a gallon container of Pine Sol and another of Clorox Bleach. He always hated the scent of bleach. It was so… pungent and potent, so toxic. It used to be, when he was a child, mere contact with the stuff would imbue in him a deep-seated urge to void his stomach then and there. Fortunately, he’d developed more of a resistance to the stuff as he’d grown older, not to say that it didn’t still irk him.

Careful not to inhale too much of the stuff, he wipes down the scene of the killing, sloshing the bleach as evenly as he can about the carpeted room, then goes over the corpse itself with the Pine Sol.

Craig whistles as he works with the chemicals, sweat dripping through his silken black hair as he goes about.

After about a half hour of intense scrubbing, he arises to take in the fruits of his labor. The sponges he used are tinged crimson and coarse from harsh scrubbing.

Feeling as though the treatment will suffice until someone tips off the authorities, he returns the chemicals to their proper place in his backpack.

He walks calmly, through the living room, into the kitchen, and out the back door, his phone in hand, whistling as he walks through the backyard. The most likely scenario will be the man’s wife, Ursula, or whatever her name was, comes home and finds him tied to the chair. Initially there will be only shocked screams of panic as she fumbles with the corpse. Once she’s officially ascertained that he is, in fact, dead, her shock will turn to tears, and leak from her eyes in fervent convulsions. She’ll scream her agony, shrill and powerful, for all the world to hear and know her pain. And that will most likely be it. Authorities will be called, they’ll launch an investigation, and by then Craig will have been on a plane back to New York.

A quick peek at his watch told him it was 10:00 AM. Mr. Black would be expecting him at Gnocchi’s by 7:00, though he might be able to get away with 7:30 if he charmed his way out of it.

He climbed into the driver’s seat of the rental car, a quaint Grand Cherokee, 2018 model, fastened the seatbelt over his torso, lit a cigarette, and departed for Hartsfield-Jackson.


	2. TWEEK

Tweek walked hurriedly as he drained the caramel macchiato he’d picked up from Starbucks merely thirty minutes before. He knew what would be waiting for him the second he stepped into the classroom. Mrs. Martsfeld would ask the class to hand forward the work she’d assigned the night before. Tweek, having no possession of said work, would bury his head against the desk, and do his best to suppress an anxious fit of twitching. As the papers came in, Martsfeld would begin to check names off her list, and when they stopped, she’d review the very same list for discrepancies. She’d find one in Tweek’s name being left unchecked on her list. She’d call his name in front of the class, and his nerves would fray. ‘Where’s your homework?’ She’d ask, and he’d be forced to confess his heinous crime before his peers. She’d then proceed to lecture him about responsibility, how his parents paid good money for him to study at such a prestigious university as UCCS, how much potential he’d been given and how little use he ever made of it. And he’d merely sigh, and make hollow promises to do better.

He stopped by the bathroom, slipping in and allowing the door to slam shut. Standing in front of the mirror, he took in his messy blond hair and disheveled outfit. Anyone who didn’t know him would have assumed he was vagrant. He wore his favorite lime green sweatshirt, which was tattered and messy, hardly his nicest article of clothing, but certainly his comfiest. His jeans were faded and fashionably ripped, he had three more pairs just like them he’d gotten for Christmas.

After a few seconds spent digging in his backpack, he removed a pill bottle. He sighed, shaking an oblong pink tablet into his hand. The label on the bottle read, ‘Xanax, take one tablet orally in the morning, and one at night’. Taking a quick swig from the faucet, he popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed it with little effort. Tweek returned the bottle to its place among his books and binders.

As he entered, the classroom, the events played out near exactly as he’d predicted they would, and the end he was resolved to lay his head against his desk, and take a long hard nap.

He dreams vaguely of frappes and mochas, as well as the occasional latte here and there, and is roused only by the sound of the bell rattling in the hallway.

“Mr. Tweak.” The teacher calls from the back of the room. He freezes, shutting his eyes. Just when he’d thought his problems were at an end until the next hour. “A moment?”

He turned, giving her a fake smile, and advancing towards her desk.

Mrs. Martsfeld wasn’t an ugly woman. She had long flowing hair, the color of chestnuts, dyed with blonde highlights. Her features were subtly elegant, blue eyes perfectly complementing a shapely nose. Tweek was sure he’d be attracted to her if he was… you know, into that whole sort of thing.

“Hi, Ms. Martsfeld.” Was all Tweek said.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” She asked him.

“I don’t--”

“You have so much potential, Tweek. You can change people around you, you have such unique ideas, you could change the world someday. I know you had some… issues… over the summer, but you can’t let the past impede your march towards the future.”

Tweek gave a nervous scratch on his wrist when she mentioned his ‘issues’.

“All I’m asking of you is that you try. Can you do that? Can you just put forth a basic effort?”

Tweek nodded and gave a meek “Yes, ma’am.”

“You want to know something?” She asks. He looked at her, suddenly interested.

“Your nose always twitches when you lie.” Her gaze returned to her computer screen. “That’ll be all, Tweek.”

With a long, drawn-out sigh, he left the classroom, dredging along through the crowded corridors to his locker. Grumbling to himself, he despaired greatly at the fact that this was his life. A cycle in which he tried, failed, reveled in the misery of his failure, and then tried yet again only to meet the same inevitable failures.

Thus was the life of Tweek Tweak.

“Hey, man.” A voice called from down the hallway. He turned to face Clyde Donovan, his friend since elementary school, short hazel hair frayed about his face as he approached him rapidly from the middle of the hallway. Tweek sighed and wore the same smile he’d worn to speak with his teacher. “You doing alright?” Clyde asked.

And as Tweek nodded, his nose twitched just a little.


End file.
